Saint Ron, the Holy Protector
by Rye-bread
Summary: based on a fanpic by MinnesotaMutt things that go bump in the night Walpurgis Night are after Kim.  Can Ron save his beloved from a ghastly fate?
1. Chapter 1

This is based on a fanpic over at DeviantArt: St. Ron, the Hero, by Minnnesotamutt. The picture shows Kim asleep in Ron's lap. Her ungloved hand is holdinghis ungloved hand while he is steadfastly maintaining a protective vigil. A halo surrounds his head.

For more on Walpurgisnacht and St. Walburga, consult Wikipedia, Encarta, etc. For more on St Cyneburga of Germania, stay tuned. Good night, dear readers--heh.

CHPT 1.

Kim was running--down the castle corridor. There were torches set in the wall every thirty feet or so--otherwise it was pitch dark. The sound of her feet on the stone floor echoed off the stone walls. The sound of feet behind her fell on her ear.. She looked over her shoulder; it was a werewolf with slavering jaws; run faster, she told herself grimly. Something brushed past her face; she yelped with fright; it was a bat. It became a human; a Count Dracula-looking figure, dressed in a suit and dark cape, gliding behind her, grinning fiercely. The thud of heavy feet caused her to glance back: a Cyclops, with greasy shoulder length hair, dressed in a loin cloth and waving a club.

The mission started ordinarily enough; Dr. Drakken's new lair was in a German castle, in the Black Forest. It looked like rather fairy tale-like--in the daylight; but this was Walpurgisnacht, the Witches' Festival, before May Day, just past midnight, in the wee hours. She so wasn't going to do this again--not without checking the calender.

The sound of a horse galloping overtook her to the right; it was a Headless Horseman, clutching a head by its hair--her father's head. "Kimmie-cub," it called to her, in a loud whisper, smiling horribly. It was too ghastly. The terror began to overwhelm her. On her left she heart a cackle: a Witch, on a flying broomstick--her mother--green skin, red eyes, red lips, a forked tongue, baring her fangs as she smiled. Cold sweat, pounding heart, ragged breath, mortal fear; she tripped and fell. Her pursuers were instantly upon her; she covered her face with her hands and screamed.

She sat up with a start, wide awake, gasping, and drenched in sweat. It was dark; the campfire crackled and Ron sat on the ground beside her. Rufus was startled awake, and looked anxiously at her. "Oh, Ron!" she sobbed, and huddled in his embrace, shivering like a leaf.

"Oh, K.P.," he spoke soothingly. "That's the third time tonight; it's this crazy Witch's holiday; you've been spooked since sunset."

In a few minutes, when the terror had subsided, and she was trembling less, she asked: "Ron, tell me again--when does our ride arrive?"

He smiled with gentle irony. "Sunrise--the quaint horse and carriage comes with the tourists to visit the castle. That's what we get for bailing out of the cargo plane with our parachutes instead of our jet packs. We're stuck here in the countryside while Drakken and Shego make their getaway in the last remaining hovercraft. Don't you remember, hon? We worked it out with Wade hours ago; you were looking forward to a night under the stars."

She snuggled close and gazed into those warm brown eyes. "That was before I started having dreams that looked like the Blair Witch Project."

His arm around her shoulders drew her even closer. He tapped his Ronunicator. "Shall I call Wade? There's that U.S. Army base nearby; they might send a chopper out to pick us up." He winked. "I'm sure our boys in uniform would be glad to host America's fave teenage super heroine."

"Thanks," she said wryly. "I'll settle for my boy in a mission suit. I feel better now." She stroked Rufus's head. "Sorry to scare you, Rufus."

"S'okay," the little animal squeaked. He stretched, yawned, and curled up on Ron's glove; in a moment his little snores were audible.

Kim drew her knees up and lay herself across Ron's lap. He stroked her hair while she looked up at him with a light of adoration in her eyes. "I could swear you have a halo around your head."

He laughed. "Hah! Rabbi would so flip out if he heard you say that; although Mom might agree with you; 'My boy,' she would say, 'the kosher saint'." He stroked her hair. "Want to tell me about the nightmare?" She shook her head; the horrid image of her parents as monsters was still too vivid.

"Ron, I feel like a little fun; pretend I'm Barkin in German Studies class, and I'm asking you about Walpurgis."

He was skeptical. "Can you imitate Barkin?"

"Of course--watch," she said brightly. "To begin with--note serious face;" and Ron chuckled at her imitation of him. It was a silly thing to do in the middle of the night in the middle of Germany, but how could he resist those twinkling green eyes?

She frowned, furrowed her brow, squared her shoulders, and stuck out her chest; and Ron had to acknowledge that Kim Possible in a close-fitting black crop top sticking out her chest looked much more attractive than Steve Barkin--"Ow!"

She had slapped his arm. "You're staring at my boobs! Stop it!"

"I am not! What gave you that idea?" But his red face and embarrassed grin gave him away.

"Come on, Ron; put your head in the game; pretend I'm Barkin."

"Oh, all right; but don't ask me to imagine Barkin in a crop top."

They looked at each other with an "Eww" expression, and both collapsed into gales of helpless laughter. The merry sound spread through the countryside and for those few moments chased away the shadows.

Ron was liking the new Kim; the old Kim was very self-conscious about her public image. She would have never tried to do an impression of someone else; it would be too demeaning. The Food Chain would so disapprove.

She did the Barkin frown quite well. "Stoppable, tell me about Walpurgis."

Ron did his old whiny persona quite well: "Mr. Barkin, what's that all about? It sounds like a salad dressing?"

"Stoppable--" the Barkin sigh "--I am losing my patience; answer the question."

Ron began the sing-song delivery. "Walpurgis Night is on April 30, the day before May Day, the traditional first day of Spring. It's named after St. Walburga, who lived in the eighth century. The pre-Christian belief was that the Spring conquered the Winter on this day. The elves and the spirits of the departed would emerge and dwell on the earth for the summer; but on the night before, the Witches would have one last festival; they would fly on their broomsticks to the bonfires on the mountains, and have sacrifices and dances, and worship the Male Goat God--or something like that. According to the German writer Goethe, Faust met the demon Mephistopheles on Walpurgis. Adolph Hitler committed suicide on Walpurgis Day in 1945."

A wolf howled in the distance, and Kim gulped. "Maybe this wasn't a good idea."

Ron tried something new. "How about I do my imitation of Gustave?"

Gustave von Holt was the caretaker of the castle. He had been the unwilling butler of Drakken and Shego during their brief occupancy; Drakken was untidy, leaving his gadgets all over the castle and Shego amused herself by shooting little balls of green fire at him; good riddance to them both. But the famous Kim Possible and her partner--that was a different matter.

"Frrraulein Posseebol." Ron rolled his r's and exaggerated the German accent. "I velcum you to Castle Cyneburga; und I velcum der famouz Herr Stoppabol und his amazing companion, RRRufus."

Kim giggled; Ron had it perfect. Ron and Rufus had been delighted to discover that someone knew their names; and they all were delighted--and appalled--to hear the story behind Castle Cyneburga: the story of St Cyneburga of Germania.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello, dear readers. I've been into Say Something, Ron, The Seven Kisses of Kim Possible, and A Time For Tenderness. The Glacially Slow Writer has birthed another chapter after a prolonged labor period. I remain the Kim Possible Ignoramus. A friend has recorded a few episodes of the show on cable. I've seen the episode where Kim sings at the talent show and gets over her falsetto voice, the episode where she pilots the space shuttle, and the giant cheese wheel episode. I want my portrayal of Kim & Ron to accurately reflect the source material. So, my dear readers, send me your reviews. Flame away.

According to numerous websites, the name "Kimberly" is from the Saxon-Germanic word "Cyneburga" which means "Strong Tower"--which was part of the inspiration for this story. Kim, Ron, & Rufus belong to Disney. The names "Iacomos" and "Timotheos" are the Greek versions of "James" and "Timothy", the names of Kim's father and brothers.

The info about St. Boniface and his quote about the evergreen tree are found in Wikipedia. The info about Wotan, the sacred tree, and Freya is found in a mythology encyclopedia I happen to own. The rest of the history is what I picked up in a lifetime of reading stuff like National Geographic and watching public television. There are a couple St. Cyneburga's in the ancient accounts. The only thing these historical saints and my character have in common is the name.

I tried to transfer Kim Possible to a 7th century setting. It bothered me that I would have to let Cyneburga suffer a martyrdom--but that's how it was for Christians in those days--and for Christians today in much of the 3rd world. The modern-day K.P. would have defended herself--but that's not how the plot bunny for this story went.

Christianity takes a lot of heat for causing historical suffering, like the Crusades, the Inquisition, and the Witch Trials. People blame belief in God in general. But what does it mean when a believer is cruel? What does it mean when a married man cheats? What does it mean when a member of government takes bribes, or a policeman arrests the innocent on purpose? It means people can be hypocrites. It's not the fault of religion, or marriage, or government, or law enforcement. Society needs those things. Guns kill people. So do poorly-given cars. So does drug abuse. The secret is not to ban those things, but to use them wisely.

A 2 year gap between updates. Yeah, that's the Glacially Slow Writer for you. Basically, the story is already complete. I just needed to gestate and get the little details filled in.

Ace Ian Combat--no, not just a one-shot. Kim and Ron will both be taken into a dark place to endure a fearful trial. And it's going to take several chpts.

GargoyleSama--oops. You're right. 30 days hath September, April, June, & November...

Molloy, surforst, momike, thanks for the reviews

Since this the season of Lent, the 40 days preceding Good Friday when Our Lord suffered crucifiction, I thought it an appropriate time to add this chpt.

**CHPT 2**

_Gustave von Holt told Kim, Ron, and Rufus the tale of St. Cyneburga of Germania (as Germany was called during the time of the Roman Empire). She was a saint of the seventh century; her very name meant "Strong Tower"._

In about the third Century after the birth Christ, the Huns invaded Europe from Asia and drove the Goths before them. The Goths settled everywhere. In the centuries to come, they would be known as Saxons. For the most part, today's modern Europeans are the descendants of Saxons.

In about the fifth century after the birth Christ, the Saxons conquered Rome, and the light of civilization in Europe dimmed.

It was six centuries since the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth, called The Christ, and still the preaching of the Gospel had not penetrated to every part of the land. Feudal lords ruled their little principalities as gently or as tyrannically as they wished. Robbers and brigands ruled the roads, and travel was dangerous. The common people were oppressed, and life was cheaply held.

The Saxons still worshipped the old gods, but here and there were a few who confessed the Christ.

In the seventh century, Cyneburga was born in a little village in central Germania. Her father was the learned village elder and her mother Anna was a healer.

Everyone noticed Cyneburga's red hair was she was born. Surely she is the daughter of Freya, they said. Freya was the goddess of fertility, red of hair, blue of eye, and voluptuous of body. She loved jewels and gowns, and she would trade her virtue without hesitation to obtain such gifts from her lovers, the stories said. Many men prized such bright red hair on a woman

Cyneburga's mother Anna prayed on her heart, let not my daughter grow up a wanton.

When little Cyneburga opened her eyes for the first time, and the bright green was seen, some of the old men muttered, "It is a bad sign. She will be a hell-cat. Woe to him who marries her."

But her father wisely intoned, "She will be her own self. No man will ever dominate her."

Cyneburga was bright and temperamental. She could climb trees like a squirrel, swim like an otter, clear the height of a man's head with one leap, outwrestle any boy in the village, and surpass everyone in archery. She was her father's pride and joy. The faithful friend of her youth was a shy lad named Rolf, blonde of hair and freckled of face. He was a clumsy as Cyneburga was agile. His tunic kept tearing, and his leggings kept falling off. He would trip over a molehill and was afraid of spiders.

Cyneburga's younger twin brothers, Iacomos and Timotheos, gleefully tormented her with their pranks, like balancing a bucket of water above a door she was about to open, and drenching her. She threatened to skin them alive, and her mother often had to protect them from her.

For a while, it seemed that her mother's fears would be realized. Cyneburga was a shameless flirt and loved to steal kisses from the boys. She also loved necklaces and bracelets made of decorative glass beads, and bright-colored clothing. Erik, another young man of the village, caught her eye and her heart. He was tall, dark-haired, and broad-shouldered. His high forehead, noble chin, and dark eyes made Cyneburga sigh and stare with longing. For a time, she abandoned her friend Rolf. But one day, Cyneburga and Erik parted company and never spoke to each other again. Anna wondered if Erik had been too aggressive in fulfilling his manhood on Cyneburga. A more gentle approach might have weakened her resistance and secured her heart.

It was only known that Erik appeared with a broken nose and two black eyes, and Cyneburga was silent and withdrawn for many days. When she finally began to relate to someone again, it was to her friend Rolf.

The chief god of the Germanic tribes was Wotan, or Odin, as he was called by the Vikings further north. Every village had its sacred oak tree, dedicated to Wotan. On it they hung the skulls of their enemies and the bodies of the evildoers. It was said that Wotan allowed himself to be hung on a tree for nine days, to learn the secrets of life, death, and magic. It was said that once a month, Wotan and his horde would ride in the storm clouds and snatch up the careless young maidens. It was said that his spirit could possess a man and drive out all fear. Before battle, the warriors would pray for the god to enter them. Then they would fight like berserkers, in a mad ferocious frenzy. Wotan delighted in war and lust.

But Cyneburga's heart was not inclined to Wotan.

Her father, the learned man and village elder, knew something of the science of the Greeks. He also knew how to read, which was rare enough--Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. He taught his family to read, even his wife and daughter, which was even rarer. Bur rarest of all, he owned several precious books, a part of Homer's Odyssey, Aristotle, A Gospel of the Christos, and a letter of the Christian teacher called Paul of Tarsus.

He often told his daughter, "Anything is a _possiblis_ for you, my little Cyne-cub." He used the Latin word for possibility and his own pet name for her, which annoyed her. But his belief and confidence in her and her own natural physical ability enabled her to do anything she put her mind to.

And something she read by the Christian teacher resonated in her soul. I can do all things, through the Christos, Who strengths me.

This Christos, whom the Romans called Jesu, the Greeks called Iesous, and the Jews called Y'shua had lived in far off Palestine. Here was a God Who didn't call for men to be hung on a tree like bear bait, Who Himself was hung on a tree, they said, in others' place. Cyneburga's heart was drawn to this God Who did good. Here was a God Who did not possess men, like a demon, but Who indwelt men like an invited guest, Who did not make men brave by making them insane, Who did not make berserkers of men but gave them peace and tranquility. A God Who healed--she had only to regard her own mother, Anna, the gentle, the serene, the joyful, Anna of the warm russet hair and the quiet eyes the color of the windswept sky. A God Who in the days of His mortality was a carpenter, Who did not shirk menial labor--how many husbands could learn from such a God? And most of all, a God Who honored women--He honored His Mother, it was said--He did not despise women during their monthly time--He did not abduct them, stealing them as the brigands do, binding and abusing them as the perverts do, inflicting unspeakable cruelties--she was reminded of her father, the wise, the learned, the patient and tolerant, who might forget to wear his hat in the rain, who might with a smile overlook the mischievous behavior of his children, but never forget to bestow a hug, a kiss, a tender gesture on his family--the Christos loved children best of all, it was told, as she looked rather wryly at her rascally twin brothers, Iacomos and Timotheos, named after her father

Here was a trustworthy God--and Cyneburga placed her trust in Him.

Cyneburga said to Rolf one day, "I feel like doing something. Want to join me?"

Rolf shrugged. "Sure."

And each day they would go on what Cyneburga would call an _auftrag_--_mission_ in the old German. They would help people--usually in secret. Sometimes it was simply repairing a broken gate or roof. Sometimes it was finding lost items. Sometimes it was finding lost children. If a husband were injured and unable to hunt, or if the harvest were greater than what the family could glean before the frost, meals would mysteriously appear, or wheat would be bailed and shocked overnight by unknown hands.

Now and then Rolf would express his timidity. "We should not be out at night. There might be gnomes."

"Gnomes?"

"Yes! Like the wooden model Killigan has in his hut--Augh! A spider!"

Cyneburga sighed. "Rolf--is there anything you are not afraid of?"

"I don't know! Probably not. But the worst--there might be monkeys in the trees!"

"Monkeys?"

"Yes. Your father told me about them. Little creatures that look like hairy gnomes with long tails. More agile than squirrels. They live in Africa."

"Rolf--that's hundreds of leagues away. South of Italy. Across the Sea."

"Yes. And if I had to, I would be afraid to make the journey."

Cyneburga laughed and kissed Rolf on the cheek. "Never be normal, my friend. I could not endure my world without you."

And Rolf suddenly felt much braver.

If a mission involved danger, the greater Cyneburga liked it, and the more nervous Rolf was. Climbing mountains, walking on narrow ledges over yawning drop-offs, or even fighting off the wild beasts. Many travelers walked through the woods and trails around the village in complete safety, completely ignorant of the red-haired guardian angel and her reluctant blonde sidekick who watched over them.

Sometimes wild men came to the village. Marauders were common in those lawless days. Cyneburga's father would give the order, and men would arm themselves. More than once, the invading force would abandon its attack at the last moment. Pits, traps, snares hidden along the trail would claim many victims. And at the last a small lithe figure with hair like a torch would leap down from the trees. With hunting knife and staff, this agile demon of the woods would jump and leap like a darting field mouse, inflicting wounds as serious as the claw and bite of a panther. Men armed with sword and shield would find themselves knocked senseless or bleeding profusely. If any had not fled by the village defenders appeared, they threw down their weapons and begged for mercy from the creature that looked like a human but struck like a wildcat.

There was one man in the village who commanded respect: Cyneburga's father. There was another man who commanded fear: Wotan's shaman--and Rolf's father, Gunter.

The people lived in fear of the wrath of Wotan. Centuries of superstition were a stronger motivation than even husband's love of wife or mother's love of child.

And Cyneburga was growing older. Her childhood freckles faded. Her body ripened as she drew near to womanhood. Gunter's eye fell upon his son's friend. Her red hair and green eyes marked her as the ceremonial bride the god Wotan and his shaman.

To be Wotan's bride brought to bear all the belief that the people had. The spirit of the god ruthlessly claimed the chosen girl--like an abduction. And the shaman lay with her and satisfied himself physically as the spirit of the god satisfied itself intangibly.

Rolf's mother was not a "bride" of Wotan--only a common village woman. She had died giving birth to her son.

So one day Gunter approached Cyneburga and told her, "Wotan has spoken to me. You will be his next bride."

And she simply said, "I refuse." Such a thing had never happened, either in the memory of anyone living, or in the tales of the elders.

Cyneburga might have left it at that. People would understand if she was being stubborn. But the Christos had promised He would confess before His Father whoever confessed Him before men. And so she said quietly, "I cannot wed Wotan. I belong to the Christos."

The people were aghast. They were scandalized

Her father took her aside. "My daughter--why? It is my duty as village elder to honor _all _the gods. You weaken my authority. Cyne-cub! Your mother heals in the name of Frigga, Wotan's kindly wife. This dishonors her!"

Cyneburga pled for understanding. "My father! I honor you and mother, according to the Commandment of the Jews. But the one God must have first place, also according to the Commandment. Please accept my decision!"

But he would not. "You spit upon my own faith--the faith I have tried to teach you! I cannot stand with you!" And he no longer acknowledged his daughter publicly. Such was the hold Wotan had upon minds and hearts.

They told her to flee. "Why should I leave my family, whom I love? Is there a place in all the land where men like Gunter dwell do not dwell? Why should Christ flee before Wotan? And if I leave, who will care for those who depend on me? Old Helga and Sylvia--who will gather food for them?"

It was true. Helga was blind and Sylvia lame, and had no family. Cyneburga did not cook well, but she hunted, and caught game, and Rolf made broth for the two. She was their arms and legs and eyes. She visited and conversed and laughed with them. "Wotan commands men to be brave in battle, and that is good. But does he also command us to feed the hungry and care for the least of our people?"

The people of the village begged her, for they all loved her as a daughter. "We plead with you, fight, or flee. We well stand by you, if you fight. We will hide you, if you flee. But for the sake of your dear mother, whom we revere and love, do not let her heart be broken!"

But Cyneburga would not yield. "If invaders came to our village, I would take up weapons. If a felon sought to harm my family or those I love, I would slay him without hesitation. But for this, I will not lift my hand on my own behalf."

So Cyneburga stayed, and both Gunter's lust and anger grew hotter. She continued her missions with Rolf, who did not abandon her.

There were two who served Gunter. Erik, Cyneburga's former suitor, and Killigan the Scot, whom it was said had come from the islands of Britain's, home of the Picts and Scots. Fear of Wotan's wrath proved profitable for them. They had their pick of choice food and women, and none dared oppose them. They came to Cyneburga's home.

"I know why you are here. I will not resist," she said simply.

Mercilessly, they dragged her away. "You should have become my woman, little red-hair," said Erik evilly. "I could have protected you."

"The Christos is my defender," said Cyneburga firmly.

Gunter kept her imprisoned in a pen made of tree limbs lashed together, open to the weather. No food or drink was allowed her. She licked the dew off the bars of the cage, and ate the grass and insects she could reach. She became pale and clammy.

Rolf came to her daily. His heart broke. They clasped hands through bars. "I will kill him!" he said fiercely.

"Rolf!" protested Cyneburga. "He is your father! I forbid it! Besides, it is my business to endure this to the end!"

"The end?" he wept. "I love you!"

"I love you, too. And not for this life only. The Christos puts love in my heart for your soul and all those whom I hold dear! We would spend eternity in His Presence."

"What good is the next life if I am not with you in this life?"

Rolf could not endure his own trial. In his grief, he fled. And Cyneburga was alone.

Her captor came to her on the last day. "Are you ready?" growled Gunter. "I can take you anytime I wish, but Wotan must have a willing bride. Renounce your Christos. Honor the god of your fathers, and your family shall have a dozen--nay, three dozen cattle. You will be honored for the rest of your life. Your parents will never lack for care, and your brothers will marry well."

But she would not budge. "Will Wotan honor me with eternal life? Will Wotan feed my family the Living Bread that fills the heart?"

The last night was Walpurgis--the Witches' Eve. "This in your final opportunity, girl. Tonight the god will come to you. Allow him to possess you--or never see another day of life."

"My life is hidden with Him. This might be _your _last day, shaman. Do you know what awaits you after your death?"

Gunter left. "Do not enter the clearing tonight," he told Erik and Killigan. "Wotan will make his presence known. It would drive mad all who are here."

She was assaulted by voices and dreams. Unspeakable sights passed before her eyes. Ghastly sounds echoed in her ears. Horrid fears assailed her heart. It was a sore trial. Cyneburga shut her eyes and stopped up her ears with her fists. She curled up on the ground and whimpered, "Please--my Lord--help. Don't let me be taken by Your enemies."

A gentle Voice whispered to her above the shrieks of the unseen tormentors. "My daughter, I hold you in the Palm of my Hand. Be strong. Soon I will come for you."

In the morning she looked haggard and exhausted. "You--have--failed, shaman," she said hoarsely.

Gunter scowled. He motioned curtly. Erik and Killigan and dragged Cyneburga by her arms to Wotan's Oak. Her throat would be slit in the ritual manner.

The people of the village gathered and stood in terrified silence. "Wotan is angry! This girl has defied his will! This village has tolerated her rebellion! You love her more than him! Pray that her sacrifice will turn his wrath from us!"

Cyneburga was bound to the tree of skulls. Gunter approached with the dagger. Cyneburga called out to her parents. "Do not fear for me, dear family." She looked up, and with face aglow, she cried out, "I see Him, I see Him!" He had come for her, according to His promise. She cried out the Latin name. "Jesu!"

With a growl, Gunter hurriedly drew the knife across her neck, and the blood flowed.

Cyneburga died in a moment. She uttered an involuntary gurgle and her voice trailed off. Her eyes glassed over and her head drooped to her chest.

Gunter dropped the knife as though it were hot. He stumbled back and uttered a curse. Then he composed himself, and turned to the villagers. "So perish all who blaspheme the gods!"

Her body was hung on the tree, as a sacrifice to Wotan. The very sight of it was an obscenity.

Her mother wept bitterly, and her father maintained a steely silence.

The villagers mourned for that one who many loved as a daughter. They remembered her kindnesses and courage. But many also feared this battle between the gods. Wotan had punished through his shaman. But would the Christos be angry for the death of His servant? They trembled with dread.

And so it was in the dead of night that Cyneburga's two brothers performed their greatest trick--and their bravest deed.--out of love for their sister.

Iacomos approached the tree from the east, dressed in a moth-eaten tunic and a battered old helmet, and Timotheos approached from the west, wearing an old dress and a red headcloth. The two boys were sickened by the sight of their sister's body hanging from the tree. They forced themselves on.

Suddenly Iacomos sprang up and shouted in a deep voice, "I am Wotan! I come for my bride!"

Killigan and Erik screamed like little girls. Timotheos leapt up and shouted in a falsetto voice, "I am Freya! Take me, my lord!"

The two brothers ran toward the tree and the guards. Killigan and Erik hugged each other and wet themselves. The fright of being startled in the middle of the night, the fright of being visited by the gods--it was too much. They soiled themselves.

The false god and goddess ran circles around the guards and the tree, then ran in opposite directions. Killigan and Erik recovered their wits--almost. They started to pursue Iacomos and Timotheos around the tree. When the brothers broke off and ran in different directions, they hesitated. Each stared to pursue the intruders, and collided with each other. Killigan and Erik both shouted, "You follow this one, and I that one!"

When they finally ran after the brothers, Iacomos and Timotheos were almost out of sight. When everyone was out of sight, a group of people came: Cyneburga's parents, and a few of those Cyneburga and Rolf had helped. Anna sobbed at the sight of her daughter hanging like a carcass. A little boy Cyneburga had taught to climb clambered up the tree with a knife in his teeth. Like a squirrel, just as Cyneburga had showed him how, he skittered out on the branch. The hanging skulls rattled, and he made a face of disgust. He cut the rope, and the body fell limply into her father's waiting arms. Tenderly, Anna received the body and cradled it, even as the Mother of Christ cradled the Body of her first-born Son after the Crucifixion.

"Husband, behold," said Anna to her husband in hushed awe. The people marveled. On Cyneburga's face was a smile. On her neck was no trace of the knife slit or the rope burn.

"The Christos shows us. His favor is with our daughter. Her body is unmarred," he said quietly. "We should have defended her."

Anna combed the red hair. The mourners wrapped her body in a blanket. Cyneburga's father carried her in his arms as he did when she was a sleepy little girl.

The mourners took the body to the little clearing where Cyneburga loved to spend so much time. They hastily buried the body and went to their homes.

In the morning, Gunter was enraged. Erik and Killigan sheepishly returned with discarded garments, a helmet, and red headcloth. Their own garments were stained and soiled, and they stank of both urine and feces.

"Wotan will destroy this entire village! I demand that you give up the guilty--and return the body!" he screamed. "This Jewish god will be defamed--!"

As sudden as a single breath, a bolt of lightning fell from the sky and ignited Wotan's tree. All jumped startled at the clap of thunder. In the space of another breath, a torrential wind blew. The tree groaned. Gunter looked up as the tree toppled over on him. He held up his hands in a futile gesture. His scream was cut short. A limb crushed him. The tree burned like tinder.

"So perish those who blaspheme the gods," said Cyneburga's father with bitter irony.

Erik and Killigan were never seen again. Without Gunter, they had no bravery, so they fled.

They went back to the clearing to exhume Cyneburga's body and bury it with honors--as a great chieftain or warrior--but it could not be found. The brothers dug frantically from one of the clearing to the other. There was not a trace.

Finally Anna bade them stop. "It is enough. Let her rest. Wotan takes men to Valhalla. Perhaps the Christos has taken our dear Cyneburga to Himself, body and soul. I would not have her sleep disturbed"

Anna became a Christian. She healed in the Name of the Christos. It was said she could do miracles and heal the sick.

Iacomos and Timotheos became Christians. They became defenders of the weak.

And the people came to revere Cyneburga. Many of the village became Christian.

Her father never publically acknowledged a belief in the Christos. He continued to honor the old gods during the traditional days--but fewer and fewer came to the old ceremonies. The observances finally ceased. When his wife and sons prayed--when the villagers worshipped the Christos--he stood on the edge of the crowd with bowed head and folded hands. And upon his death, a carved wooden crucifix on a leather thong was found under his tunic.

In the centuries to come, a little log chapel was built, then a little stone chapel, then a great church, then Castle Cyneburga. Pilgrimages were made. Stories were told: as St. Mary, the Blessed Mother of Christ, appeared at Lourdes, Fatima, and Guadalupe, Cyneburga appeared in the little clearing--to a few, over the centuries.

Miraculous healings and visions were reported. But not many pilgrims flocked to the little clearing--because another, darker presence was felt.

The presence of the saint brought joy, cheerfulness, laughter, safety, and protectedness. And the presence of the pagan god brought fear, ghastly dreams, unwholesome foreboding, and a sense of imminent doom.

The two presences strove with each other and those who sought the blessing had to contend with the bane.

A century after Cyneburga's martyrdom, St. Boniface himself had come the village. He had been sent by the Pope in Rome, and Charles Martel, the king of the Franks, to evangelize the Germanic Saxons. He would often chop down Wotan's Oak in each village he visited, as a contest between Wotan and the Christos, and then built a chapel from the wood of the fallen tree. According to tradition, he found a small evergreen tree at the trunk of one of the Oak trees he cut down. "If you must revere a tree, let this be your new symbol. This humble tree's wood is used to build your homes: let the Christos be at the center of your households. Its leaves remain evergreen in the darkest days. Let the Christos be your constant light. Its boughs reach out to embrace and its top points to heaven. Let the Christos be your Comfort and Guide"

The Germanic reverence for the evergreen tree eventually found its expression in the Tannenbaum, the Christmas tree.

An aged Archbishop by now, Boniface had come to Cyneburga's village, and was surprised to find the Wotan's Oak already long gone, and a thriving community of Christians. He was told the story of the courageous girl, and determined to spend the night in her clearing, praying. It was Walpurgis Eve. Boniface was haunted by visions and voices. Men would say later that spirits of darkness, or even Wotan himself, who had been evicted from the land and from the hearts of the people, tried to drive Boniface mad. But it was in the morning, before the break of dawn, that a girl appeared, hardly old enough to be on the verge of womanhood, glowing with joy, red hair bright as a campfire, green eyes that twinkled like stars, and a smile as dazzling as sunrise.

"Lass, what has wakened you? Predatory beasts and men still wander these woods. You should be asleep in the bosom of your family."

She laughed lightly and merrily. "This is my resting place, noble Saint. I know these woods as I know the embrace of my mother and father."

"So young a maiden to take your rest alone under the open sky? How is this?"

Again the sweet laughter. "'Maiden' you call me? I lived and died long before you were even conceived, my brother. In my youth I was as skilled as any hunter in woodcraft and surviving in the wild. And the evil ones that assailed you also assailed me."

Boniface realized and fell on his face. "The Saint! Thou art the Saint!" He was filled with dismay. "Woe to me! I have looked upon holiness!" Then he felt a warmth upon his head. He could not tell if it was her hand or just the sensation of comfort.

"My brother," she said, "You are redeemed, just as I, poor unworthy one as I am, by the sufferings of Our Lord, Who bled and died."

He lifted up his head.

Then her face showed seriousness. "But this I must tell you, my brother. Write this down, that the people might remember the prophecy. The foul demon who sought me to be Wotan's Bride, that he might possess me, will try again--in thirteen centuries. Another maiden--and her protector--will be sorely tested. And you yourself must prepare. Your time is short until you must suffer--as Our Lord suffered, and as I suffered. Be faithful to the death, my brother, and you will inherit the Crown of Life." And she smiled again. "Soon, my brother--very soon. Until then, farewell."

And it came to pass, even as the apparition of Cyneburga foretold. The elderly Boniface was preaching and baptizing among the Frisian people of Germania, and he was slain by an armed mob, in reprisal for his destruction of the pagan shrines years before.

The village became a town, and became a city called Cyneburg. It was a center of trade during the Renaissance, and then lost its importance and began to grow small, and then dwindled to almost nothing. Castle Cyneburga remained, and the little stone chapel in the clearing.

The Von Holt's, descendants of the original village folk, were a rich family whose fortunes dwindled away. They became the keepers of the Castle. Gustave never married and was the last of the line. He, and some hired help, cared for the castle, the grounds, and entertained guests.

_Gustave Von Holt showed Kim and Ron an icon, an image on a crucifix--an image of Cyneburga. It was made by an ancestor, based on the description given by pilgrims, like Boniface, who had seen the apparition of the Blessed Saint Cyneburga. It was a holy relic._

_Kim gasped and felt the chills down to her toes. Ron stared open-mouthed. Rufus squealed and blinked._

_Cyneburga's face on the icon--the face of someone who had lived and died more than thirteen centuries ago--the green eyes, the little upturned nose, the little smiling mouth, the round chin, even the red hair, in the "flippy" style--it was the face of Kim Possible._


	3. Chapter 3

Molloy, Ace Ian Combat, CajunBear73, I appreciate your incisive comments. Sorry it took such a long time to update. Birthing a story is sometimes hard for me. Sometimes? Always.

Bobboky, thank you for your kind R & R.

the basic outline has been my head for a couple years. it just takes a long time to gestate, like I said.

The historical details are what I remember studying about when I was in school, several decades ago. Hope I got them right.

Ron's deep thoughts of the historical hostility between Christendom and Jewry? it sort of stands there, like a big pink elephant everyone wants to ignore. It hppened. It continues to happen. But it doesn't go away if we all just stand around and put on a happy face. There are issues to face. And if a little humility for ancestral historical evil is called for, so be it. And if we cannot agree on everything, we must to learn to live together like reasonable men. Total conformity of belief by force is the way of the tyrant, like Antiochus, in the story.

But within the marketplace of ideas, the public forum of discussion, everyone is free to state their views--and even endeavor to convert others--by persuasion, not by force. This is a prerequesite to a free society.. It is a fine balance--hard to maintain. Can we do it? God Grant. And no suppression of thought by political correctness. That is as forbidden as suppression of free thought by tyranny.

The Bible verse above the chapel door in German is from Martin Luthur's translation of the Bible, dated 1545. I found it at BibleGateWay-dot-com.

_**CHAPTER 3**_

"Und das iss der conclusion, my dear guests, of der tale of our blessed Cyneburga," said Gustave Von Holt.

There was a great dining hall in the castle, with a great oaken table, but Gustave had served his guests at the roughhewn pine table in the kitchen.

Ron watched Gustave with interest. He was reminded--of all people--of his great-grandfather Jon Stoppable. Same height as Ron, hair slicked back, mutton-chop sideburns, handlebar moustache, high starched collar. He had a towel around his waist like an apron.

And that thick German accent. Thank goodness Gustave spoke English, thought Ron--or at least he thought it was English.

Ron also watched Kim with great interest. Normally, Kim and history were like Kim and Smarty Mart--or Kim and cooking--or Ron and science class. Like oil and water. They simply didn't mix. But Kim sat transfixed, her elbows on the table, her hands folded, her eyes rapturous, her face glowing. Every few moments, a tear trickled down each cheek. Ron had never seen her so moved.

Kim's face glowed as she heard the story; her heart felt like it would fly out of her chest. She could identify with the girl; what courage.

Ron listened intently, too. He thought about his own ancestral stories.

The Maccabees:

For a precious few centuries before the birth of Christ, Jewish independence flowered. The Jews had their nation and their Temple. But the King of Syria, Antiochus Epiphanes, tried to take the land.

He outlawed Judaism. He abolished the kosher food laws. He sacrified swine, an unclean animal in the Temple. To keep the Sabbath or circumcise male children was punishable with death.

A family of brothers rose up. The Maccabees. Judas, Jonathan, and Simon. They led the resistance.

The Syrian army had the freedom fighters holed up in the Temple. Food was running low. Even oil for the lamps. Enough for seven days. But a miracle occurred. The oil lasted for eight days. The little Jewish force was heartened, and they carried on the battle.

And the holiday of Hanukkah was born.

Masada.

In the year 77 A.D., the Jews revolted against the empire of Rome. The Roman army destroyed Jerusalem and the Jewish nation.

The last stand of the Jewish rebels and their families was at an old fortress atop the plateau of Masada. It was hopeless. So they killed themselves rather than be captured.

And the rest of it. The pogroms. The Holocaust.

Being killed for one's religious faith? That was so sick and wrong! How glad he was that he and K.P. had what they had between them. He felt a great wave of sympathy and sadness for this first K.P., or C.B. Obviously she didn't have a Stoppable, or some good Jewish kid watching her back.

Rufus's antics brought Ron's thoughts back to the present.

Rufus was imitating Gustave, much to Gustave's delight. He had wrapped a napkin round his waist, like Gustave's towel-apron, and was actually talking in comprehensible speech. "Herr Schoppable und Fraulein Pozzibol, tomorrow for breakfast ve vill serrrve sausage und eggs. Please be here promptly."

Gustave laughed uproariously.

And Rufus turned his attention to him. "Herr Holt," he said in his thin piping voice, "For shame. You haff drunk three mugs of beer in frrront of these imprrresionable underage youth--und you haff not even offered me a swallow!" And he belched.

Gustave laughed harder. Tears of hilarity came from his eyes.

Kim poked Rufus. "Rufus! Behave yourself! Herr Holt is our host!"

"No, no, Fraulein Pozzibol, it is okay," said Gustave reassuringly. "But I must ask Herr Rrrufus how he has managed to eat five cheese strudels without bursting open. He looks like a stuffed weinerschnitzel."

And Rufus **did** look overfed, waddling about like a little penguin.

"Don't worry about him, Herr Holt," said Ron. "By midnight he'll be back to normal, and by tomorrow, he'll be as hungry again."

Kim whispered to Ron. "I have an idea." And she turned to their host. "Herr Holt," she asked, "Does the little chapel still exist? In the clearing where Cyneburga was killed?"

Gustave nodded.

Kim wanted to spend the night near the chapel, out of doors in the clearing, where legend said that the apparition of Cyneburga would sometimes appear.

Ron gulped. "Where some dead girl comes to talk to people?" He hated ghosts almost as much as he hated spiders and monkeys.

She nudged him. "I'll protect you."

Ron hesitated.

Kim started the Puppy Pout.

Ron caved.

Gustave them to the clearing bearing a lantern and a bedroll.

Ron carried a lantern in one hand. His other arm was around Kim's waist.

Kim held another bedroll. "This'll be fun," she bubbled. We can gather some wood and have a campfire--that's okay, isn't it, Herr Holt?"

Gustave nodded.

Kim snuggled up to Ron. "And if Wotan stops by, I have my brave knight to protect me."

Ron rolled his eyes.

Gustave spoke with sudden seriousness. "It is an honorable role--a heroine's holy protector." Suddenly the thick German accent that was so charming was strangely absent

Ron shrugged "Me? Nah. I'm just a sidekick--like Shego used to call me. But being a boyfriend--" And he winked and smiled. "--That's one sidekick perk I can live with."

"Two final words, young sidekick. First--the sacred animals of Wotan--as the legends say--are the wolf, the raven, and the serpent. Watch for them. They precede his coming. Second--remember the words of David. 'He has put a new song into my mouth.' 'Thy Word have I hid in my heart.' 'The Name of the Lord is a sure defense.' " Keep these things in mind and you will indeed be your heroine's holy protector.

Ron was too surprised to talk. And little creeped out. Was Gustave playing mind games? A little prank?

The little stone chapel stood like a sheltering sanctury nearby. Some words were carved in German above the door.

Offenbarung 12:11. Und sie haben ihn überwunden durch des Lammes Blut und durch das Wort ihres Zeugnisses und haben ihr Leben nicht geliebt bis an den Tod.

"Herr Holt, my German is kinda rusty," said Kim, biting her tongue. She could picture Barkin: _"Possible, you're being a slacker, just like Stoppable."_

"I will translate," said Gustave.

Revelation 12:11. And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death.

"Herr Holt?" asked Ron.

"Jawol, Herr Stoppable?"

"I get Who the Lamb is--it's talking about--er--Jesus Christ."

"Very good, Herr Stoppable."

"But who are 'they'?"

"The believers of God. The righteous. The martyrs, those who suffer for their faith. Like Boniface. Like Cyneburga. Even like your Maccabees. Even like many who perished in my poor country under the rule of the madman Adolph Hitler."

"And who is 'him'? The one they overcame?"

"He who is called Der Drache--the Dragon. Der Teufel--the devil. Satan. The persecutor of the righteous."

Ron gulped. "Oh. Just wondered."

Good night, Herr Holt. See you in the morning!" Said Kim cheerily.

"Guten nact, my friends. In the morning, God willing."

_"God willing." Why do people have to say that just before bedtime? _thought Ron. _It makes it sound like they might not wake up--alive. _Ron panicked._**Gah! **__Sick and wrong!_

Gustave left them with severe misgivings."Blessed Saint," he whispered, "A trial awaits them--such they have never faced, in their entire careers of doing missions--such as few ever have or ever will face--in all the history of the world, from start to finish. The hideous creature."

A young woman's gentle voice spoke--to his inner ear? To his heart? "I faced the selfsame trial--and the selfsame creature--alone."

"But our world has grown fat and lazy," protested Gustave. "Our hearts are cold with unbelief."

"She is my daughter," answered the Voice. Do not judge by appearance only. A double portion of my spirit dwells within her. Remember. In this generation will my descendant appear. And her young man will do battle on her behalf. And the demon will be driven away."

The Prophecy of Boniface.

Gustave crossed himself. He fingered the slver chain round his neck. He took out a crucifix and kissed it "Faithful saint, I join my poor prayers to yours. Intercede with Our Lord for these two."

"Do not fear, my dear friend and little brother. Greater is our Savior, Who dwells within you than the Evil One who resides in the world. And He is with them. Have faith in God."

The night began innocently enough. They sat at the campfire and chatted, hugged, kissed, watched the stars, and hugged and kissed some more. Then a mischievous twinkle gleamed in her eyes, and that wicked little grin that Ron loved so much came to her lips. "Hey, Stoppable, wanna fool around? I so feel like makin' out."

"Kim! We're on holy ground! And I'm not even a Christian!"

The corners of her mouth turned down. Her brow furrowed.

"No! Not the Puppy Pout!"

The sad lines appeared around her eyes. Her lower lip stuck out and quivered.

"Aw, K.P.! You gotta play fair!"

The Puppy Pout blossomed.

Rufus turned his fce away. "Yuck. Kissey face." And he sought refuge in Ron' pocket.

"G'night, Rufus," said Kim and Ron.

Rufus mumbled something. He was going to dream about cheese strudel.

They talked discussed and hugged talked some more. They sang the Drakken rap as they repeated, "Lather, rinse, obey!"

A tickle fight developed.

Kim's squeals drifted up with the cmpfire smoke. "You perv! Stop messing with me! We're on holy ground!"

Ron laughed. ""But you wanted to fool around!"

It was a beautiful night. The crackling campfire. The cheerful little circle of light. The bright stars ovrhead. The wind blowing gently through the trees. So peaceful.

Kim had drifted off to sleep, her head pillowed in Ron's lap. Ron was thinking profound thoughts--unusual for him.

He had been to the Tri-City Holocaust Memorial. He had seen the historical presentation of. The progroms. Anti-Jewish hatred throughout the ages.

Sometimes it was turned around. Jewish-on Christian violence.

Ron was frank with himself. After all, they had a point. The chief priests--crafty old Annas, his son-in-law Caiaphas, and the inner core of the Sanhedrin _had _conspired with Herod Antipas and Pontius Pilate to execute Jesus of Nazareth. And they had used the zealous young rabbinical student and member of the council, Paul of Tarsus to suppress the Christians--until he had a miraculous conversion.

But then there was that matter of six million victims--Ann Frank and all the rest.. _Hey, Lord_, Ron asked himself, _doesn't that kind of even things out? Can't the Ku Klux Klan and the Neo-Nazi skinheads just leave the Chosen People alone?_

No, he realized. Not as long as they were trying to do b.s. like rewrite history--saying places like Auschwitz never existed.

In the end, all he himself could do was what he had done all along. Help K.P. save the world.

Rabbi Katz said there was something in the Talmud. Whoever saves a single life, it is as though he saved all mankind--or something like that.

Ron's mind turned to the stories of the Bible.

Angelic and demonic encounters. Adam and the serpent in the Garden of Eden. Moses and the Burning Bush. Abraham hosting three mysterious visitors. Jacob wrestling the stranger. Ron somehow couldn't identity with such things

...But then the dreams began. After all, it was Walpurgis.

And Kim moaned and cried out in her sleep.

And then Ron himself began experiencing--things--feelings--voices in his head--ghastly fears.

_**to be continued**_


	4. Chapter 4

Well, we just had another Walpurgis--April 30. And I've been dragging out the story for years. And making up new ones instead of finishing the ones I've started.

screaming phoenix. Heartbreaking and joyous. Thank you. God grant I can tell it true and compelling. Let's see if I can increase the dread of your anticipation a little bit.

CajunBean 73. Legacy of Rolf? Dude, you're sharp--and that's all I'm gonna say about that at this point. Yes. Something ominous approaches.

muzzlehatch. Thank you.

The Glacially Slow Writer is burning up his laptop. This is the second update today for a FF-dot-net story for me. I am _cook-in'_! And all it took was divorce and joblessness.

Kim, Ron, Rufus, Gil Moss, Camp Wannaweep, and Bobo the Chimp are the property of Disney.

Gustave von Holt, Cyneburga of Germania, Rolf, and Gunther the shaman are my literary creations.

All the camp songs are public domain--as far as I know.

The Raven was written by Edgar Allen Poe.

The being who is behind Wotan belongs only to himself. He wants you--and me--and the whole freaking race of Adam and Eve. Avoid him at all costs.

This chpt. contains a reference (& possible spoiler) to my story The Lion, The Treehouse, And The Naked Mole Rat. Kim and Ron are in the treehouse reading the Chronicles of Narnia together.

_**SAINT RON, THE HOLY PROTECTOR**_

_**chpt. 4**_

It began innocently enough. Earlier in the evening. The occasional baying of a wolf . The wind was whistling through the trees.

Kim snuggled up against Ron inside their bedroll. She drifted in and out of sleep.

Ron slept fitfully. He turned to one side and another. At one moment they would face each other, and the next moment, he would turn away.

Kim sighed indulgently. Just when she got settled in his arms, he would turn on his other side--facing away from her. She spooned him. "Hey," she whispered, "Mr. Insomniac. It's not me keeping you awake, is it?"

Ron sighed and turned again, face to face. And again she settled in his arms. "Nah. It's--I dunno. Something's strange."

She gave him a peck on the lips. "You aren't feeling guilty about sleeping with me, are you?"

He shook his head, "No! So not! Definitely not! Although," he grinned, "I gotta wonder why we brought two bedrolls out here. The way Herr Holt winked at us when he left gave me the idea that we're not fooling him about sleeping separately."

Kim giggled. "We brought two because Herr Holt offered us two. In case one of us has any inhibitions, we have two places to sleep. Besides, he I'm sure he trusts us. We're not gonna have a wild sex orgy on Cyneburga's holy ground. And I trust you. You're not gonna put any moves on me while I'm asleep."

"And in case you forget, I'm the one who keeps insisting that we keep fully clothed when we nap together," said Ron firmly.

Kim kissed his nose. "I love it when you get all protective about my virtue, Mr. Stoppable. You kinda sound like an older brother." She smirked. "Which, if you think about it, sounds kinda naughty. Me 'n' my older brother asleep in each other's arms."

Ron sighed. "K.P.--you're not helping. If one of us ever has a slip of the tongue while we're around my mom or your dad about our sleeping arrangements on missions, it's gonna be hell to pay. Think about it. A Black-Hole dad and an overprotective Jewish mom."

Suddenly, they both felt a stirring down in the bedroll--at about waist level.

"Ron Stoppable," said Kim, surprised but smiling, "Are you trying to feel me up down there--after all that you just said about proper behavior?"

In the faint glow of the campfire, Ron could still be seen to turn bright scarlet red. And he sounded . "Uhh--K.P.--I mean--no way! Both my arms are outside the bedroll! I got 'em around you!"

A little lump moved up toward the opening of the bedroll. A very glum and irate naked mole rat emerged.

"Rufus! Dude! You gave me a scare!" said Ron, very flustered.

Rufus stood on Ron's chest. He glared and poked his master's nose. He waved his forelegs and jabbered.

Kim couldn't help but smile. "He's obviously very tweaked at us. Can you tell why?"

For answer, Rufus went into a spirited pantomime. He curled up on one side, snoring. Then he flipped like a pancake to the other side and snored. Then he sat up, pointed at Ron, and jabbered more.

Ron was sheepish. "Oops. Sorry, little guy. I forgot. Every time I turn over, it must feel like I'm flattening you."

Rufus nodded curtly. He walked around the campfire, unrolled the other bedroll with a kick, and walked in. They could trace the movement of the little bump half down the bedroll, where it flattened as he lay down.

Ron shrugged. "I guess the extra bedroll is gonna get used after all." He turned around. "Hey, Ruf. That's not too roomy for you, it is?"

The little bump rose up again and moved toward the bedroll opening. Rufus appeared sullen, crossing his arms. "Humph!"

Ron looked sheepish again. "I guess it's too roomy after all. He's used to smaller places--like pockets." His face lit up. "Hey! I got it!" His arms still around Kim, he pulled off his right-hand mission glove and tossed it to Rufus. "Here! Small enough!"

Rufus inspected the glove with a critical eye. He turned to Ron and gave a thumbs-up gesture. And promptly settled into the glove as though it were a miniature bedroll.

"Hey," said Kim happily, "The Ron-factor triumphs again!" She kissed him. "Well done, partner."

Ron shrugged. "Ah, it was no big." And they both laughed.

He glanced at the fire. "Hmm. Gettin' low. I should throw some more sticks in."

Kim groaned. "Ron! It's so warm and cozy with you sharing the bedroll. Besides," she gestured toward the breathtaking starry sky with the glowing moon, "You can practically see your shadow." She tugged on his shirt. "Now come on. Stay in here. I got the moonshine out there and the Ron-shine in here. What do I need with any old campfire?"

Ron grinned broadly. " 'Preciate the sentiments, babe. But the fire somehow seems kinda cozy. Like I'm back at Camp Wannaweep." He slid out of Kim's arms and the bedroll, and stood erect.

Kim looked at him sideways. "Hmm. Ron Stoppable. Is this the same Camp Wannaweep with the mascot? Bobo the chimp that scared you to death? With the toxic lake filled with pollutants? With Gil Moss on your case. The place that you said was the worst time in your life, because I wasn't there? And when I **was** there, it was because we were tricked by Gil--or Gil**l--twice**, because he wanted to turn us into his mutagenic posse?"

Ron pondered. "You bring up some good points, K.P. But--and I don't know if I ever told you this--the best time of the day was at night--around the campfire. It kinda made up for the crummy parts of the day--with the chimp--and swim time--and Gil--and Cabin Thirteen." He gathered some sticks from the pile nearby and threw them on the fire. The flame leapt up and lit the surrounding trees. Even the little chapel was illuminated.

Kim watched him while he squatted by the fire. "I've never heard this part of the story." She patted the ground next to her. "C'mon. Sit here. Tell me."

Ron sat cross-legged, and Kim pillowed her head on his thigh. He smiled with remembrance. "This is gonna sound so corny. We sang songs. Me in my coonskin cap. Sitting by the fire. Pretending you were with me. Roasting marshmallows. Like the campouts I used to have with your fam."

Kim rolled her eyes. "Ron! I remember those campouts like it was yesterday! You were as jumpy as a mousetrap. The slightest noise, the glowing eyes in the bushes, the cricket and frog sounds--you made me want to smother you in your sleeping bag!"

Ron smiled sheepishly. "Yeah. I was hard to put up with."

Kim groused. "Hard to put up with, he says? I don't know who tweaked me more. Daddy trying to play the guitar--the Tweebs singing off key--or you huddling next to me like a scared rabbit." And her face softened. "Which--I gotta admit--" She walked her fingers on the ground up to his hand and grasped it. "--I really didn't mind that bad."

Ron smirked. "You mean you were crushing on me back then? Talk about never hearing this part of the story."

Kim hedged. "Wellll...I don't know if it was puppy love, or just needing a friend. I was kinda between crises in my life. We were eleven--it was the summer after that amazing tenth birthday--"

Ron nodded and smiled at the memory. "--We camped out in my treehouse. We had been reading The Chronicles of Narnia together. We had a discussion about what we wanted to do when we got to high school--"

"--And you sounded like you wanted to punk out on life--"

"--And you sounded like you wanted to become a super overachiever--"

"--And we were both afraid we had alienated each other--"

"--And we both had this badical dream--"

"--The same dream--"

"--How we both went to Narnia--"

"--And met Aslan--"

"--And the Pevensies--"

"--And fought the White Witch."

Kim had pillowed her head on Ron's thigh. "It sounds strange to hear myself say it, Ron--but that one night--truth or dare--was a turning point. I felt so bad that I had all these hopes and goals, and you didn't--and I was afraid of leaving you behind--and then we faced that sitch together--even if it was a dream--" She looked up pensively. "--I was afraid I might lose you--"

Ron laughed gently. "Aw--K.P.--I was more afraid you would get tired of me!"

Kim gently punched the leg she was resting on. "Creep--you made me cry that night--you had been with me for six years--and the fact that you might punk out on our friendship hurt me more that the fact you might punk out on your schoolwork, and growing up."

"But here we are--still BFF--and even BF-GF--tighter than ever." He leaned over to kiss her.

And she received the kiss. "Just you remember that, Mr. Ron-the-man. I depend on you. You save my butt and much as I save your butt. Like I was saying--that night was a turning point in my life. It I didn't know it before, I knew it after--how much you mattered to me."

Ron sighed. "Wow. I make jokes about my sex appeal--I mean--I always have--but it always kinda humbles me to hear you say stuff like that."

Kim snuggled closer to Ron and laced her fingers in his. "So--now that I've bared my soul--tell me about your camp songs at Wannaweep."

Ron looked up at the sky. "Well--it was the most peaceful part of the day. After Gil Moss was done tormenting me--and Bobo the chimp shredding every last pillow in Cabin Thirteen--and brushing pillow down and bugs off my head--and my folks not taking my calls anymore--I needed that peaceful time. Like I said, imagining you were there. It was a few minutes of peace and sanity in an otherwise insane day."

"What songs did you guys sing?"

"Well--it was no big. Just the usual sing-along-around-the-campfire stuff. Michael, Row The Boat Ashore, "He's Got The Whole World In His Hand, Kumbaya--like that."

"Ron--sing to me now. Not like the your 'Naked-Mole-Rap' hip-hop."

From Ron's mission glove, Rufus piped up indignantly. "Hey!"

"Sorry, Rufus," apologized Kim. "Nothing personal."

Rufus shrugged. "S-okay."

Ron looked crestfallen. "K.P.? Me? Sing?"

Kim's Puppy Pout appeared again.

And Ron relented. "Alright. Just for you." And he lifted up his voice.

Kumbaya, my Lord, Kimbaya / Kumbaya, my Lord, Kimbaya / Kumbaya, my Lord, Kimbaya / Oh, Lord, / Kumbaya…

The gentle melodies wafted around the meadow--the same meadow where Cyneburga and Rolf had spent so much time together--and where Wotan's Tree had also stood.

Ron liked the soothing atmosphere. But he was running out of songs. So he tried a few extra selections.

A sunbeam / A sunbeam / Jesus wants me for a sunbeam / A sunbeam / A sunbeam / I'll be a sunbeam for him

Kim was almost asleep. "Ron?" she muttered.

"K.P.?"

"Wouldn't your folks flip out? Or Rabbi Katz? That's not exactly a kosher song."

"Yes, it is," insisted Ron. "Jesus was Jewish. And Rabbi Katz wouldn't mind. He told me so himself."

"Didn't it bother you? Singing Christian songs?"

"Nope. The whole politically-correct thing didn't kick in at Camp Wannaweep for a couple more years. And hey--I sing your songs when I go with you to church, and you sing my songs when you go with me to Temple. No big."

And Kim sighed indulgently.

And he thought of a more approriate song.

Father Abraham had many sons / Many sons had Father Abraham / I am one of them / And so are you / So let's us just praise the Lord

Yeah. Father Abraham. Definitely more kosher.

Then suddenly Ron noticed there was no sound. The wind had stopped. There were no crickets. There were no stars. No moon. The sky was completely black. In fact there was only the ring of light of the little fire that extended to the trees.

Kim moaned and whimpered and stirred restlessly in her sleep. Her head was still pillowed on Ron's leg. Then the series of nightmares. She awoke in a cold sweat, screaming. One time, two times, several times. He lost count.

_Kim was running--down the castle corridor. There were torches set in the wall every thirty feet or so--otherwise it was pitch dark. The sound of her feet on the stone floor echoed off the stone walls. The sound of feet behind her fell on her ear.. She looked over her shoulder; it was a werewolf with slavering jaws. Run faster, she told herself grimly. Something brushed past her face; she yelped with fright; it was a bat. It became a human; a Count Dracula-looking figure, dressed in a suit and dark cape, gliding behind her, grinning fiercely. The thud of heavy feet caused her to glance back: a Cyclops, with greasy shoulder length hair, dressed in a loin cloth and waving a club._

Then the dreams got more personal.

_The sound of a horse galloping overtook her to the right; it was a Headless Horseman, clutching a head by its hair--her father's head. "Kimmie-cub!" it called to her, in a loud whisper, smiling horribly. It was too ghastly. The terror began to overwhelm her. On her left she heart a cackle: a Witch, on a flying broomstick--her mother--green skin, red eyes, red lips, a forked tongue, baring her fangs as she smiled. Cold sweat, pounding heart, ragged breath, mortal fear; she tripped and fell. Her pursuers were instantly upon her; she covered her face with her hands and screamed._

And Kim quivered like a scared rabbit every time she woke up.

"K.P.--" Ron would begin. "--This is so sick and wrong. We came out here 'cause you though it would be fun to sleep where some girl who reminds us of you was killed for her religion. And now you're having the same crazy nightmares everyone else reports having when they stay out here. C'mon. Let's pack up our gear. We'll douse the fire and head back up to the castle. I'm sure Herr Holt won't mind lettin' us crash indoors until our ride comes tomorrow. We can even tell 'im it was my idea to come back inside."

And Kim would squeal **"No!"** And then laugh nervously, clasping his wrist. "So not the drama. I'm just a little jumpy. It'll be okay in a few minutes."

Then he himself began to feel it.

Ron thought he had been afraid of spiders and monkeys. That was little stuff. This was true horror. Something was out there somewhere. Or was it **many** things? Or some**ONE**?

Goosebumps covered his arms like rash. He felt his forehead. Beads of sweat collected like raindrops, even though the air felt numbingly cold.

In a quavering voice he began to sing to himself some of the songs again.

Michael, Row The Boat Ashore, Alleluia.

He's Got The Whole World In His Hand

Ron wracked his mind for more songs. And the one he thought of was--

I am a C- / I am a C-H- / I am a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N / And I have C-H-R-I-S-T in my H-E-A-R-T / And I will L-I-V-E E-T-E-R-N-AL-L-Y

Nope. He was a kosher kid.

Well, there was still--

Kumbaya, my Lord, Kimbaya / Kumbaya, my Lord, Kimbaya / Kumbaya, my Lord,--

And suddenly, Ron heard a hoarse whisper from behind him.

"Stop That!"

He jumped a foot off the ground--and looked around. Nothing. He began to sing again.

--A sunbeam, a sunbeam, Jesus wants me for a sunbeam--

And the voice came louder. "Stop That! I hate those songs!"

Ron twisted his head from side to side. It came from his left--no, his right--or was it overhead? His eyes darted around like a scurrying mouse. His breath came ragged. He expected to feel a hand on his shoulder--or an arm around his neck from behind--or a bag put over his head--

--Ron exhaled noisily. It had only been a dream. The hooded men with no face and the long arms weren't rally there. He breathed a sigh of relief. But something inside made him want to run.

Again voice said, "Go !"

He looked around but could see nothing. A pair of eyes. Nah, it was only his imagination.

Kim stirred in her sleep again. The corners of her mouth turned down. She whimpered. Her brow furrowed.

_Leave her_ the urge said.

Ron started freaking out again. Knowing someone was behind--that someone was going to put a hand on his shoulder--he should turn around and expected to see nothing attached to the hand--or a body with nothing above the neck--or some horrible floating thing with nothing under it.

Kim clutched his hand like a security blanket. He gripped her hand in return.

Kim whimpered again. She squeezed his hand harder and he squeezed it back.

"I'm here, K.P.," he whispered.

She seemed to quiet down for a moment and sleep more peacefully.

The urge came again._ Go! Save yourself!_

But Ron steeled himself with resolve. _And leave K.P.? No way, Jose!_

He tried singing again and it seemed to soothe Kim.

Kumbaya--

Suddenly there was a voice--a deep bass voice--an audible voice--not in his mind.

**"Stop that!"**

Ron nearly jumped out of his skin

"Stop that! You're interfering! Don't sing about--Him!"

Then the imagination started again. It kicked into overdrive. He just looked at Kim--or at the fire. He was afraid to look further up--or to either side--or behind. He would see a head. It would have empty eye sockets or a single big eye. Or it would be smiling with dripping red fangs or missing teeth or forked tongue. Or there might be a thing with two or three heads.

Ron shook his own--gulp--head. What was with him? Where was this coming from? He might have been scared less if he actually saw something horrible. But he only felt something. There was no visible object to attach the horror to. It simply surrounded him.

Had he really heard the voice?

He steeled himself. _After what Kim just told me--how much I matter to her? No! Ron's staying! I'm not Rolf! _He dared to raise his voice--only slightly, so as not to wake Kim--and just in case this whole sitch was just an overactive imagination, he wouldn't sound like a complete jerk talking to nobody. "Ya listening, Wotan? Ron Stoppable is non-stoppable! I'm all about the non-stoppable-ness!"

He was startled by the flutter of wings overhead, and a call Was it the _scree_ of a hawk? The _caw_ of a crow?

Ron was no ornithologist--or as he had said in class one day--"Ornery-tholigist". It made Kim grimace, Bonnie Rockwaller smirk, and Mr. Barkin give him a half-hour detention after school. Ron hadn't done it deliberately--just the never-be-normality of the essential Ron-ness.

But something was trying to work its way to the surface of his memory. What was that poem by Egdar (or was it Edgar?) Allen Poe?

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore / Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

_That_ was it. The croak of a raven!

But then there was another sound. The same sound that echoed in the skies earlier in the night.

_A wolf howled in the distance, and Kim gulped. "Maybe this wasn't a good idea."_

Ron looked back with bitter irony. _Not a good idea, K.P.? Spending a night outdoors in a place where some poor girl was driven half-mad with ghostly voices? Where the same girl was tied up to a tree decorated with human skulls--and got her throat slashed like you would gut a fish? And then for the next thousand-plus years, people report seeing the girl turn up? And just to top it off, haunted voices? __**Not**__ a good idea? Ya think? __**So**__ not a good idea!_

Ron heard the pad of feet off to his left. The goose bumps did their parade all over his body again. He tried to not panic. He tried to think rationally. That's not the sound of human feet--like two feet walking. It sounded more like a dog walking.

The animal was big, by the sound of it. It flopped down on the ground. It started panting. Ron wasn't too keen on any form of animal life except Rufus, but the mental picture of a big friendly sheepdog or retriever with its tongue lolling out was a warm fuzzy thought. So he dared to lift his eyes and look off to the side--

Wrong. It was a fierce-looking dog. Like a coyote--nah--too big. More like a wolf--a **big** wolf. Pointed ears. Grizzled wiry fur. Long muzzle. Yellow canines. Big? This sucker wasn't a thing you could put a leash on. A saddle, maybe.

The creature growled menacingly. And licked its chops.

But the worst thing? The eyes glowed red. Lurid, demonic, blood-red.

Next to the wolf was the flutter of wings again. Not little sparrow wings. Big condor wings. (Well--Ron had never _seen _a condor in real life, but hey--can't a guy have an active imagination?)

But the bird that landed wasn't imagination. It croaked. Like the bird in the poem. It's feathers were black. It almost blended perfectly with the pitch-black night. And its eyes were--yes, ladies and gentlemen, you guessed it--glowing red.

The wolf was on one side of the bird. From the bird's other side came a new sound. A swishy sound--like something sliding over grass.

Or slithering.

Ron started to do a mental checklist. The sounds animals make. Birds flap their wings. Wolves pant. And the slithering sound? What else? Snakes.

Ron had seen little garter snakes around the woodsey parts and vacant weedy lots of Middleton When He and Kim were younger. Scared the stuff out of him. Almost messed his boxer shorts.

Kim would laugh and pick them up--bare handed. They would coil around her wrist. "Ron--see how cute they are?"

And he had to admit--once he could breathe normally again--and his heart wasn't pounding in his chest--it was kinda cute--with the little jewel eyes and flickering tongue.

When older, he had seen a python at the Upperton Zoological Park. Its body was thicker than Dad's arm and longer than a car. Yeah. Try curling that around your wrist. But the python was quite sluggish. Just lay there coiled like a big slippery looking rope. Once or twice it shifted its head. that was the only sign it was really alive. Otherwise, it didn't even blink.

This monster was bigger than the python. And it moved slowly and deliberately. It stopped just short of the ring of campfire light and lifted its head. And like a couple laser pointers, the bright red unblinking eyes seemed to look at him and Kim like that garter snake might look at a field mouse.

Gustave Von Holt had warned him. Wotan's sacred animals. All of them. Just outside of the rapidly diminishing glow of the campfire.

_"Two final words, young sidekick. First--the sacred animals of Wotan--as the legends say--are the wolf, the raven, and the serpent. They precede his coming. Second--remember the words of David. 'He has put a new song into my mouth.' 'Thy Word have I hid in my heart.' 'The Name of the Lord is a sure defense.' "_

Yeah, it was definite. When Kim and Ron got back home--_(__**If**__? __**As**__ if! Somehow, home did not seem like a place Kim or Ron would ever see again)._ But--for sake of argument, assuming they ever made it back to the safety of Middleton--and Ron ever made back to the boredom of a routine Shabat service at Temple--and some of the guys were discussing deep theological issues after service--like the reality of Hell and Evil and Demons--Ron was confident he could stand up and authoritatively settle the issue. _"Yeah--it's real--it's populated--and in some places, it's alive 'n' well. How do I know? Are you sure you wanna hear that answer?"_

Ron then heard another sound--and he knew what it was. Two legs. Human sounding. For a blink of an eye, he thought, _Yeah! Herr Holt! We're safe!_

But the heavy ponderous tread seemed to make the earth shake. No human could do that.

Ron could imagine adding to the hypothetical discussion at Temple:_--And there was also a Devil--or at least some Dude who could pass for Him._

A tall dark figure seemed to materialize out of the smudgy blackness. It was like a Viking warrior, dressed in a leather tunic and wearing a conical helmet. It--he?--wore shoulder length hair, a thick beard, and large bristling eyebrows.

And Ron felt a lump in his throat the size of two nacos. He felt the ground drop out from underneath him and his heart drop into a forever-sized hole.

The Viking warrior dude frowned and spoke in a deep--_deep_-- voice. "I am Wotan. I have come to possess my bride. Permit me and your reward will be great. You will experience such pleasures and riches as few men have ever known. Resist me and you will know such horror as few men have ever imagined."

Gunter's god had come. Hell was in session.

And what good were the words of David--or the songs of Camp Wannaweep--except to annoy? And Ron was beginning to imagine what might be in store for him and Kim.

He had seen Kim bawl, once, when spanked by Mr. Dr. P., back in grade school. He had seen Kim blubber like a soap opera queen from her fave TV show Agony County when the Moodulator was stuck to her. But the hopeless sobs that broke from her lips even while she was asleep were the sounds of complete despair. The girl who could do anything could now do nothing.

There was a rustling, a sound of movement in the mission glove. Rufus was waking up. The little naked mole rat crawled out, stretched, yawned, and opened his bleary eyes. He saw--he stared--his eyes bulged in horror.

Without taking his eyes off the Visitor, Ron tapped the ground beside him. "Rufus--c'mere."

With a squeal, the animal darted into Ron's pocket and quivered in terror. Lucky critter, to have a pocket to seek shelter in.

But Ron knew that was only a reprieve for the little guy. He wished with all his heart that he and Kim had Somebody's giant Pocket to run into.

The eyes of Wotan were too deep to see under the bushy eyebrows. But suddenly the eyes opened. The brows lifted. The lips parted. The eyes shone red and malevolent. The lips smiled. Fangs were displayed in the smile. And a forked red tongue licked its lips.

When he was younger, and watching a scary movie, he could his face in his hands. Or run behind the sofa--and endure the laughter of whoever was with him. Kim. The Tweebs. Other friends, like Felix Renton or Zita Flores. If he was in the theater, he could close and just wait until the scary scene was past. No one could tell.

There was no such escape in this sitch. The little chapel was too far to get too--assuming the doors were unlocked--assuming that the inside of the building was holy ground and could keep the zombies at bay. Heck, the clearing was supposed to be holy ground. A fat lotta good it seemed to do--like zip--zilch--nada.

Ron patted the little bump with his free hand. He tried hard to keep the tremble out of his voice. "Don't worry, little buddy. We'll get out of this somehow." _Yeah--when pigs are kosher._ He wracked his brain. What he remembered of his Bar Mitzvah lessons provided little insight on how to battle a ghost--or demon--or whatever.

The sense of horror in Ron was a zillion times worse than ever before--at home, at the movies, even earlier tonight. He wondered why he didn't just keel over from the shock. He wondered why the apparition just didn't walk the few steps, pick up both him and Kim, command the ground to split open with the shooting flames, and the ear-splitting screams, and dump them into the pit.

It was just him. Kim's only defense. _Maybe Rolf had the right idea_, he thought. Getting out while the getting was good.

A few yards away loomed the huge man--that was not a man. It was a Creature--a Being--a Thing. It was what Gunther had worshipped. And it was no story. It existed. And a huge Wolf--and Raven--and Serpent. More than a thousand years before, Cyneburga was the intended victim. Now it was Kim.

And the only thing between this gaggle of ghouls and him, her, and Rufus was the feeble campfire.

_**to be continued**_


	5. Chapter 5the haunted Ronunicator

I once heard a story. Alfred Hitchcock, who made movies like Psycho and The Birds once had a reporter bet him that the man could spend an overnight locked in a wax museum without freaking out. Hitchcock took the bet--and then laced the guy's food with Ex-Lax--or something--and locked the restroom doors in the museum.

Evil sense of humor. That was kind of the frame of mind I wrote this chpt in. it's a departure from the epic theme of good vs. evil in the story. It's been on the hard drive for months. I've been trying to flesh it out--but I finally decided to post it.

It gave me the goose bumps to write it. A good shiver now and then is fun. I hope no nightmares result from reading it. That kind of intensity I'm reserving for my Heroine's Legacy.

Muzzlehatch, CajunBear73, The Enduring Man-Child, screaming phoenix--thank you all for the reviews.

And speaking of reviews--I've shaved 2 years off my email backlog. All the kudos--I'm speechless. And I hear wail of unrequited fandom for updates. I'm a tryin'.

This chpt represents kind of a time out from the narrative--and from my workflow--having laptop issues--will back as soon as I can.

To my readers--my brothers and sisters in the Body of Christ and the family of Man--vaya con Dios.

_**SAINT RON, THE HOLY PROTECTOR **_

_**chpt 5 **_

_**the haunted Ronunicator**_

It was absolute silence in the little glade next to the little chapel. No breeze. No sound or movement from the one called Wotan or his posse of animals.

Not even the pop or crackle from the little fire. Just the flicker of tiny flames that seemed to dwindle by the moment.

Ironically, a lurid red glow seemed to emanate from the huge stranger and his pets

There **was **a sound Ron could hear--the slow thump of his heart.

The animals stirred. The giant wolf growled. The snake flicked its forked tongue. The raven tilted it head and croaked.

The tall Viking crossed his arms. "You delay. Perhaps you wish you had taken the path of the son of Gunter. But you chose to ignore the sense of warning I so graciously sent. That brief opportunity is now gone."

So it was the ghost dude that sent all the whack fears--to both Kim and him. Sick and wrong! Ron tried to keep a brave front. "H-Herr Holt t-told us ab-bout y-you!"

The Fiend's laughter rumbled like ominous thunder. "Perhaps you think you can call upon the old dotard in the castle. There will no help come from that quarter."

The goose bumps covered Ron like bad case of the pre-Prom jitters. But Erik and all Drakken's synthodrones, henchmen, and Diabloes looked like little toys compared to the Malevolent One, the true Diablo. "K-K-Kim can do anything--tall-freaky-dark-dude!" It was useless to toss insults--but it was all Ron could think of to do.

"Anything? Look at her. Look at yourself. Perhaps you think you can outlast the trials. 'If only I can endure until morning' you are saying to yourself. 'After all, did not Cyneburga endure?' Believe me--this girl is not half the warrior. And you are even less by measure, son of Stoppable. Let me show you what I mean."

Ron closed his eyes and braced himself. _The dude's gonna do something!_

The _Call Me Beep Me_ tones sounded.

Ron was desperate. He checked the numerous pockets of his cargo pants with his free hand. Kim was holding for dear life to the other. Rufus was quivering in one of the pockets. He dug his Ronunicator out of another and punched the buttons frantically. "Yo, Wade. You there? I'm in one sinister sitch. I could so use some help."

The brown freckled face appeared in the screen. "Wade, here, Ron. How's your trip to the Black Forest? Drakken and Shego on the run? You didn't run into Dementor, did you?"

Ron babbled, panic-stricken. "Wade, you won't believe what we landed in. Some sick and wrong stuff--and I mean spectral and supernatural. Some Saxon chick who looks exactly like Kim was offed."

Wade sipped on his straw. He seemed nonchalant compared to Ron's panicked behavior. "Someone resembling Kim is dead? That's a little heavy for you guys--dealing with a murder. When did it happen? Did they catch the perp?"

Ron shook his head. "No, Wade, it wasn't like that! This happened like in the seventh century or something! And the guy who manages the castle that Drakken tried to set up his lair in told us a story about the girl! Named Seen-A-Burger, or something like that! Even did missions with a Sidekick who was afraid of monkeys--not that any monkey lived in Germany--now or then!" He took a breath. He was starring to sound incoherent to himself--and he needed to maintain his wits. He continued more slowly. "Persecuted when she ditched paganism. And now both she and this homicidal ghost are supposed to haunt the patch of forest clearing where K.P. wanted to camp out overnight. But all we've seen so far is the villain ghost--so not the heroine ghost."

Wade did not seen flustered. "Sounds badical. Tell me more." He grinned crookedly. There was this ghoulish gleam in his eye.

Ron started to sound frenzied. "Badical? Wade, we are so freaking out! Kim is having nightmares like breeding bunnies! Waking up with the screaming heebie-jeebies! I don't think she's gonna make it until our ride out tomorrow! And I don't know if anyone else but you could come up with an alternative--because you so rock at that stuff!"

Something felt wrong.

A red gleam shown in Wade's eyes. His teeth looked--_pointed_!

Ron felt the hairs go up on the back of his neck. "**Are **you Wade?" His voice rose an octave in pitch. "Is Wade even there?"

Wade's grin split his face from cheek to cheek. His mouth opened like a clamshell. "Yes, Ron. I'm here." The face _morphed_ into Steve Barkin. "I'm here too, Stoppable. You and Possible been slacking lately? Need some suspension time when--or **if**--you get back to Middleton?" Barkin's head turned in a complete circle. When the face came around again, it was Rufus--with vampire-looking fangs instead of his usual incisors--speaking in a deep demonic voice. "I'm here, Ron. Got a Grande meal you want to share? Or maybe a bite of Kim?" The web cam drew back, to give a wide angle view. "In fact, we're **all** here!"

It was a coiled serpent body with many necks--and at the end of each neck the head of everyone he knew. All the villains. Drakken and Shego. Monkey Fist. Killigan. Señor Senior and Junior The Cheer Squad. Tara. Bonnie. The rest of MIddleton High. Felix. Monique. Brick. The D Hall bullies. The Yamanouchi bunch. Sensei. Yoriko. Fukushima. Ned and Lars from Bueno Nacho. The loved ones. Mr. and Mrs. Dr. P. The Tweabs. Mom and Dad. Even--sick and wrong--baby sister Hana. Even the men of God. Rabbi Katz. Kim and Tara's pastor. Zita's priest. Even a couple Monkey Ninjas and henchmen. Even Will Du. Even Roachy.

In a flash, a name popped into Ron's memory from Ms. Hamilton's class. The Serpent with many heads. From Greek mythology. Cut one head off, and two grow back. _Hydra. _

Ron swore. He cried out in fright. He dropped the Ronunicator like a red-hot pan, and kicked it away.

The voices rose from the Ronnunicator like a horrid dissonant chorus. _"Ron! That wasn't very sociable. We'll just have to deal with you when we get there. But be patient. We'll be there for Kim real soon. And the first one she's gonna have is you! Kimmie the Kannible! Are you diggin' it, Ron-dog?"_

When Ron was much younger, he had once tried a trick with his old record player--a trick he could not do with modern CD's--adjusting the speed of the turntable. The sound went from fast to slow, from high pitch to low pitch. He thought it was funny--his parents did not. His cousin Shawn later tried the same trick.

The voices of Wotan's chorus rose and fell in pitch--the effect did not produce feelings of amusement in Ron.

He gritted his teeth and tried to stifle another scream. He tried to reach the power button with his foot. In doing so, he jostled Kim.

She also squealed in fear. She jerked as though startled, and held Ron's hand even harder with both her hands, but remained asleep. "Ron! Don't leave me!"

He grasped both her hands with both of his. "So not the case, K.P. You're Ron-man's gonna stay until the job's done."

The voices rose in a wail. Ron could feel his sanity start to crack. "Please, God--"

Like a little pink bullet, Rufus shot out of Ron's pocket. He ran to the machine and pounded the power button.

The multiple headed creature on the screen fixed it's multiple eyes on the naked mole rat. "Rufus! You're gonna make one tasty hors d'oeuvre!"

The valiant animal hissed at the thing. Then he clamped on with his teeth and ripped the panel off. He frantically pulled wires. Finally the Ronunicator was quiet.

Ron and Rufus breathed a sigh of relief.

And with shocking suddenness, the voices roared out. "Keep trying, Rufus!. HAH! HA HA HA! **HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA…!!!**"

It was like a thousand speakers on full volume. Ron tried to shout over the hellish laughter. "Lil' buddy! Kim's laser pen!"

Rufus ran to the backpack, beyond Ron's reach. He emerged with the laser projector. He took aim and fired a two second burst. The possessed com device was reduced to a carbonized shell.

The little animal ran to Ron and slid under his shirt, shivering and weeping.

Ron patted the quivering little bump. "Dude, that took a lotta nerve. 'Way to go. You just stay there a while." He grimaced and spoke to himself. "Shoot. Wish we had a laser or something that would work against an evil spirit."

The Viking chuckled. The Wolf wagged its tail. The Raven flapped its wings and cawed. They were amused.

Ron wasn't. he was bathed in sweat. He stared in fear and loathing at the tall dark Norseman. His chest heaved and his heart pounded. "You--you hurt my girlfriend--and my lil' buddy--and you stole my sister's face. **Damn you!**"

The Fiend smiled a sadistic smile. "How did you like that encounter, mortal? That is a sample of what I will unleash on you if you oppose me."

_**to be continued**_


End file.
